The Fixer

60

Andrea paled when she heard the first words of the recording.

“Thomas Sculley,” she said. “My God.”

Rick looked at her.

“You know the funder I had lunch with the other day, and I didn’t want to jinx by naming?” she said. “That was Thomas Sculley.”

Thomas Sculley was a major figure in Boston, a developer and builder whose Bay Group had transformed the Boston skyline. He was also a major philanthropist whose name was on several hospital wings and was a part owner of the Boston Red Sox. When Lenny had received TMS treatment, it had been at the Sculley Pavilion of Mass General Hospital. Rick had read all the Sculley profiles. He knew the basic outline of the story. Sculley had come to America from Ireland decades earlier with just a shovel and a wheelbarrow, as every single profile seemed to put it. And went from being a small-time house builder to one of the preeminent developers in the country. Sculley’s firm was about to build the tallest skyscraper in Boston, on the site of the old Combat Zone.

“How long have you been in talks with them?”

“It’s been super fast. Their foundation director contacted us, I don’t know, two or three weeks ago.”

“After our famous dinner at Madrigal?”

“A couple days after. You’re thinking…?” She tilted her head. “I don’t know. It’s a real coincidence, if not.”

“Somehow I don’t think that was a coincidence,” Rick said.

She nodded, looking despondent. She was quiet for ten, twenty seconds. Then she took a breath. She nodded again, but this time she looked different. Resolved.

They listened to the recording a couple of times. The iPhone’s battery was at zero, so they plugged it in to charge while they used it. They couldn’t hear everything Pappas said. Only when he raised his voice for emphasis did his words become clear. But in truth they had all they needed. A name: Thomas Sculley.

The billionaire builder and philanthropist he was supposed to be writing about.

The conversation, conducted over speakerphone, went on for just a few minutes. Pappas arranged to meet Sculley at his State Street office. Then Pappas spoke to his admin on speaker and asked her to cancel his next two meetings.

“Are you serious about writing an article?” Andrea asked.

“Deadly.”

She smiled. “This is the old Rick Hoffman,” she said. “Fearless. I like it.”

“It only looks that way.”

“Then we need to prove that Sculley was connected to Donegall Construction. From what I’ve found, Sculley grew up in Belfast, Ireland, on a street named Donegall.”

“So can you connect him to Donegall?”

“Well, look-locating hidden assets and liabilities is what I used to do. But it’s a hell of a lot easier finding connections between two known entities than trying to find out what happened to one small firm like Donegall eighteen years ago. At least now I know how and where to start.”

“Can you do it now?”

“You got it.”

As she typed on her laptop, she called her son to say good night. Then Rick’s phone rang. He recognized Jeff’s number. He glanced at his watch: almost eight o’clock P.M.

“Jeff?”

“Yeah, Rick, listen. I’m still at your house. I-I got something for you.”

“You’ve got something?” Rick wasn’t sure what Jeff was talking about.

“About that thing you wanted me to look into. I’ll be here for another half hour.” There was a click and the line was dead.

Andrea was asking Evan whether he’d finished his homework, telling him he could stay up a little bit longer if he wanted to read some more of his Mike Lupica book.

When she hung up, Rick said, “I need to head over to the house.”